


Nothing Wrong With Just a Taste of What You've Paid For

by Imadegodlaughtwice



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imadegodlaughtwice/pseuds/Imadegodlaughtwice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small drabble into bandfiction, going back to the night of their first performance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Wrong With Just a Taste of What You've Paid For

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, tell me if I should continue and how to. Unbeta'd.

His fingers strum across the strings, unfaltering, playing the simple chord progression that's become second nature now. Its the singing that has him swallowing hard and wishing he could pause long enough to wipe his palms on his jeans, even though it's still hours before the show. Not that it matters anyway, its already a done deal. The contract's signed and legalized but to him it does matter, the first time playing an actual show and he feels nowhere near ready.

“Fuck!” The expletive seems to echo through the room as the bass to his left cuts off abruptly, drums and guitar left to fade off on their own. “You missed your cue again! Damn it, Brendon, that's the third time! If you can't-”

“Shut up, Brent,” Comes from his right. Brendon glances over and sees Ryan brushing back his hair as he jumps to his defense. “Just because you're nervous doesn't mean you can take it out on him.”

“I'm not nervous-” Brent starts before getting cut off again.

“Then what's your excuse for messing up the bridge on the last song?”

Brendon sighs and slips off his guitar, already tuning them out as he sees the tale-tell signs of a 'Break' coming up. These 'Breaks' have been happening more and more frequently, always starting with Brent or Ryan saying something to piss each other off and usually ending with one of them leaving in a hissy fit. He looks back and catches the eye of Spencer, nodding to the food and couch on the other side of the room, knowing this bicker session might go on for awhile.

Spencer gives a small shake of his head, spinning a drumstick and standing up. “I need to use the bathroom, you good here?” He asks, flashing a look at the fight that's gradually heating up behind him.

Brendon's responding “Yeah.” is almost drowned out by Ryan's “Well if you just played the fucking song right-” But Spencer hears and gives him a last nod before ducking out the door.

Brendon goes to the couch, snagging a juice before sitting down in the corner of the couch. He pulls his legs up to sit Indian style and almost moans in relief as he sinks into the soft couch, still not used to standing for hours straight. 'We'll never get any practice in if things keep going like this,' he thinks to himself, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back on the couch.

“Don't worry, you'll get it.”

Brendon jumps a mile, head shooting up to see Pete, their new manager, smirking at him, obviously amused to have caught him off guard.

“Wha-What?” Brendon stammers, still nervous around the guy that's plucked them from obscurity and taken them under his wing.

“No one expects your first gig to be anything but a disaster, stop worrying.” Is the casual response he's given as Pete sits on the couch, their legs brushing as Pete pulls his up to mimic Brendon's. “You're doing fine.”  
Brendon just nods and looks at him, thankful that he's remembered how to close his mouth.

“I don’t remember this song though.” Pete says after a moment, looking at Ryan and Brent fighting. “Great vocals but I think the melody could use some work,” He says lowly, leaning closer to Brendon.

“Fuck you, Ross!”

Brendon snorts, relaxing a little as the conversation goes into more familiar territory. “Yeah, the lyrics need work too, they're a little too repetitive.”

Pete smiles at him, glad that he's loosening up. “I don't know, there's many ways to use the word fuck, maybe he should try different inflections.”

“Trust me, he's used all of them.” Brendon whispers scornfully to him. “Brent is a master of of that word, its one of his favorites.”

“Maybe because its one of the only ones he knows,” Pete suggests, knocking his knee into Brendon's jokingly and frowning when he moves away wincing. “Whats wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brendon answers, just a beat too fast.

“No really, tell me.” Pete demands, uncrossing his legs and putting his feet on the floor. “As your manager I need to know when you're in pain.” He says it in a flamboyant tone, but Brendon can hear the steel core in his voice that says he'll back up his words.

“Its really nothing, Just a muscle ache- Hey!” he breaks off in an almost yelp as Pete grabs his legs and pulls them onto his lap.

“Hey yourself.” Pete retorts with a smirk, settling his hands on Brendon's calves. “Just tell me where its tight, I know all about performance pains.” He says it lightly, his fingers starting to work on Brendon's legs.

“Really, Pete I'm-” Brendon starts, trying to move his legs away. “Ohhh...” He lets out a low involuntary moan as Pete digs his fingers into a particularly tight part.

Pete gives him a smug smile. “You were saying?”

“Uh, that you have fingers of a god.”

“Oh, I know that,” Pete says, still smirking. “You'll find that I have many godlike traits.” He glances at Ryan and Brent who have retreated to opposite sides of the room. “But even I'm not guaranteeing anything with them.”  
Brendon follows his gaze to the now pouting Brent and scoffs. “God himself couldn't make them get along.”

“And yet they're in a band,” Pete remarks, still absently massaging.

“That's the majority of the problem,” Brendon explains, still watching Brent restring his bass, the broken string a casualty of their heated argument. “Too much is riding on this and they both think they should be in charge.” He glances at Ryan who's busy scrawling in his notebook. “But at least Ryan is trying to be helpful.” He looks at Pete, suddenly worried that he's said too much. “I don't mean to trash talk Brent or anything, he's wonder-”

Pete cuts him off again, giving him a reassuring smile. “No I get it, things don't run smoothly when someone doesn't pull their own weight.” He looks back at Brent frowning slightly. “Hopefully he shapes up soon.”


End file.
